From Saint Nick

The year was sinking into late December, and I was stuck in the waiting room in the Health Center at Biola, a Christian University. I checked the clock frequently while I reviewed my assigned weekly reading for my next class. I was, admittedly, a bit impatient--a vice my family will tell you they often see in me--but the lab technician did seem abnormally slow in printing and bringing me the results of my blood work.

I looked at the time--25 minutes before class. No need to panic, yet. A friend came in to pick up some medicine and we chatted for a bit before she left and I looked at the time again.

Seventeen minutes before class. If the technician didn't hurry up, I would be late. Today, of all days, I didn't want to be late. It was a communications class, one that I had with my dear friend Michelle. Michelle and I had to perform a piece of literature together the next week and were planning to spend this week noting the performance techniques used by our classmates. I looked at the time again: fourteen minutes.

I still had my book open on my lap, but I was staring at the clock when the old man walked in. He was the sort of man that would often make me smile, but today I was far too worried about getting to class on time to take joy in his countless wrinkles and powder white hair.

I watched the old man as he struggled with the front door and hobbled to the front desk. "'Scuse me," he said to the young receptionist behind the desk. "I need to see a doctor to help me put these in." He held up a small bottle of eye drops.

"Oh, you don't need a doctor for that, do you?" replied the receptionist joyfully. "Just a friend."

She was obviously not in a hurry to get to class. I checked the clock again--eight minutes to get to class. If the technician came with my results soon, I could still get to class and review my notes with my friend before the professor arrived.

I watched as the young woman directed the old man to a seat and helped him place a few drops of medicine into each eye. The man thanked her profusely, and she went back to her spot behind the front desk.

But the old man sat still. I was still watching him as he wiped the wet from his face with a crumpled Kleenex pulled from his shirt pocket when he turned and looked me square in the face.

"Merry Christmas," he said.

I was surprised at the direct contact from this stranger in the waiting room, but I smiled and replied anyways, "Merry Christmas, sir."

"What's your name?" he said.

"Danielle."

"Danielle?" he repeated. "Nice to meet you."

I nodded.

"I’m Saint Nicholas." He matter-of-factly stuck out his hand to shake mine.

My smile, I'm sure, at this point faltered. Though I shook his hand, I asked cautiously, "Saint Nicholas, huh?" I chuckled at the quaint old man in front of me.

"Sure. Saint Nicholas. Saint Nick. Either one is fine. Look."

He showed me an ID card bearing his picture. And sure enough, there in black and white "Saint" was printed before Nicholas’s first and last name.

"That’s--funny," I said, not knowing what else to say to a man who had gone through the trouble of having an ID card made with the name of a legendary Christmas icon. Thoughts of sleigh bells, reindeer and elves danced through my mind, quickly followed by thoughts of padded walls and straight-jackets.

"'Course it is," Nicholas said. "But you're a saint, too, you know."

I shook my head, still too dense to see what he meant.

"You know Jesus, don’t you?"

I half-smiled and nodded. "Yes, but--"

"Look it up in your Bible then. You're a saint." Nicholas then proceeded to quote to me from Romans, where Paul calls the beloved of God saints.

I smiled again at Nicholas, this time more assuredly than before. I am a saint, though often times a quite unsaintly one.

Nicholas began telling me how he often uses his name and ID card to connect with people everywhere. He talks to people at the grocery store, on the street, whenever he has the opportunity. The audience is especially open this time of year. Once he has introduced himself, he is able to explain to people that there is nothing about him that makes him a saint, but Christ in him that makes him worthy of the name.

As Nicholas was pulling out pictures of his children and grandchildren to show me, the lab technician arrived with my report.

I stood up and took the report from the lab technician and folded it up to put in my pocket. I looked down at Nicholas as he fumbled to remove the small pictures from his wallet. I picked up my backpack and looked at the clock; only four minutes to get to class, now.

I smiled, took off my backpack, and sat back down, right next to Saint Nicholas.


This year, as the day we remember Christ’s birth draws to a close, I remember Saint Nicholas who shone in his single desire to love his Lord and spread his word.

May I remember Saint Nicholas year-round as I strive to live my faith with my head, heart, and hands, rejoicing in the astonishing fact that my savior--who came to this earth in form of a lowly, poor, infant--has called me his own, one of his saints.